


Ride With me

by Gia279



Series: 5+1 Things [6]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 5 +1 things, Alive Hale Family, Fluff, High School AU, Human AU, Humor, I APOLOGIZE, Learning to Drive, M/M, Sheriff Stilinski POV, Stiles doesn't inspire trust in the sheriff, Stiles is probably like sixteen and Derek is maybe like nineteen so??, all of my short fics are somewhat lighthearted and very goofy, and there's peter fuckin shit up, because of who i am as a person, hopefully, idk if that counts as underage as they're not doing anything much, sheriff pulls over ALL the teens of Beacon Hills, sort of, suspicious sheriff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-12
Updated: 2016-05-12
Packaged: 2018-06-08 01:58:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6834397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gia279/pseuds/Gia279
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or<br/>The five times Sheriff Stilinski pulled someone over expecting to see his son in the car, and the one time he didn’t expect his son (but should have)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ride With me

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Прокатись со мной](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13824186) by [greencrayon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/greencrayon/pseuds/greencrayon)



> Thanks to [@rebekahdarian](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rebekahdarian/pseuds/rebekahdarian) for helping me edit and come up with the idea! This was fun to write! :D Hope you guys like it! I needed a brain break from the excitement of Gods and Monsters.

“Dad,” Stiles said seriously, “I am a very responsible teenager.”

He looked at his child over the top of the file in his hand. He wasn’t precisely sure what his face was doing, but whatever it was, it made Stiles flail indignantly. 

“I mean it! I’ve never, like, gotten a speeding ticket,” he said, ticking things off on his fingers, “or hit anything, or hurt anyone with a vehicle.”

“That’s because you don’t have a vehicle,” Sheriff Stilinski said flatly. “You have a bike.”

“Yes,” Stiles agreed. “But there is a very unused, very drivable _jeep_ in our garage. Waiting. Calling me.” He cupped his hand around his ear. “It needs me, Dad.” 

“Uh-huh.” He looked at his watch pointedly. “You _need_ to get to school or you’ll be late, Stiles.”

“I wouldn’t have to leave right now if I could drive the _jeep_.”

“Stiles,” he began, sighing.

Stiles flung his hands up in defense. “Wait! What was the point of me getting my license if I couldn’t _have the jeep?_ Or a car, anyway,” he muttered.

“The point was so you could drive in emergencies. When you get a job, you can start driving. You still need more practice, too,” he added thoughtfully. “I’m still not entirely sure how you passed your test.” He was going to have to do a background check on those guys at the DMV. 

Again with the flailing and insulted face. “I am a very good driver, that’s how!” 

“We’ll see. Now you better get on to school.” 

“I will so prove it to you,” Stiles said, picking up his backpack. “You’re going to think I’m the best driver in the _world_.” 

John was highly concerned about how he thought he was going to _prove it_.

 

 

**1**

Despite the fact that Stiles was a licensed driver, Sheriff Stilinski wasn’t ready to trust him as an actual _licensed driver_ , and thus the idea of his loved yet spastic child on the road with other drivers gave him heart palpitations. 

So when Stiles wanted to go out after school, saying he was going to hang out with his friends, John was highly suspicious. He couldn’t actually see Stiles’s face, as they were talking over the phone, but he could _hear_ the guilt in Stiles’s voice.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” John said mildly. 

“ _Ha, very funny, Dad. I’m just going to hang out with some friends,_ ” Stiles muttered. “ _I’ll see you for dinner. Love you, bye!_ ” 

John hummed and looked at his phone. He got out from behind his desk and grabbed the keys to his cruiser. “I’m going to do traffic,” he said over his shoulder.

“Getting bored with your paperwork, Sheriff?” Deputy Morris asked, grinning from her desk.

“Just protecting the public,” he called cheerfully. 

Deputy Morris laughed. 

John wished he was joking. 

He didn’t have to go far before he saw Jackson Whittemore’s Porsche on Main Street, weaving slightly into the right lane, then abruptly straightening up. 

Jackson and Stiles weren’t _friends_ , but they were associated with each other. They were friends with _each other’s_ friends, and holy god, Stiles stole Jackson Whittemore’s car. 

Whittemore’s father was the _DA_. 

John flipped on his lights and sirens, pulling out behind the Porsche with no little amount of fury at his own son. He slammed the cruiser’s door and stalked up to the heavily tinted window, vibrating with the need to rip his kid a new one.

The window rolled down, and Jackson Whittemore stared up at him. “Yes, Sheriff?” he asked with a little smirk. “Was I speeding?” 

John suspiciously looked in the passenger seat—nothing except a DVD copy of _The Notebook_. 

“You were swerving,” he said to cover his confusion. “Keep your eye on the road,” he added.

“Yes, sir,” Jackson said. His smirk rivaled his father’s, who John loathed with every fiber of his being. “Can I go now, or are you going to give me a ticket?”

“This is a warning,” John said, working up a friendly tone. “Don’t want to scratch the paint on this beauty,” he said with a little nod. “Don’t let anyone drive it,” he added with sudden inspiration. “Just you.” 

Jackson gave him a look like he thought he was a freak. “Uh, yeah, okay, _sir._ ” He rolled his window up slowly and waited until John had walked back to the cruiser to pull off. 

Possibly John was a little paranoid about Stiles’s dire warning that morning.

 

**2**

John watched Stiles closely. He stayed home, deciding to go into work late, so he could see Stiles off to school. 

“Okay, hovering,” Stiles said, untangling his bike from the bush beside the front door. “Weren’t you on the ass-crack-of-dawn shift this morning?” 

“I switched with Davidson,” John said easily. “Have a good day,” he added.

Stiles kept giving him suspicious glances over his shoulder the whole way down the sidewalk until he almost hit the neighbor’s mailbox. 

“Very responsible driving there!” John couldn’t help but call, just to watch Stiles flail his way off of the bike into an embarrassing dance of offence. “You’re going to be late!”

“I’m going to _prove_ I’m a good driver, Dad!” Stiles insisted, getting back on his bike. 

 

Despite the pouring rain that afternoon, Stiles called John at work to let him know he didn’t need a ride home.

John looked out the window suspiciously. “Are you sure?” he asked innocently. He was parked on a side road near the school, waiting. “It’s raining pretty hard. You’ll be soaked.”

“Yeah, it’s fine. I’m just going to ride over to Scott’s,” Stiles squeaked. “Don’t worry. Maybe it’ll let up later when I’m coming home.” 

“If you’re sure.”

“Yep.” 

After they said their goodbyes, John set his phone in the cup holder and waited. This road was generally used by the high schoolers that wanted to avoid the traffic of the main road right after school. 

He watched the passing cars for one that belonged to any of Stiles’s friends, eyes narrowed to see better through the rain.

A bright red four door sedan blew past him, going _way_ too fast for the 30 mph limit. He recognized the car, too—it belonged to one Cora Hale, who was in Stiles’s grade, and had been known to humiliate his son during bowling-outings. 

John threw on his sirens and lights again, pulling out behind the car. From what he could see through the back window, it _wasn’t_ Cora driving, instead a tall man. 

Or a tall teenage boy who was about to become an _orphan_. 

The car pulled, somewhat reluctantly, if John said so himself, over to the shoulder. He took his time, really letting his ideas for groundings _stew_ before he got out, ducking his head as cold rain slid down his collar. 

He straightened up as he approached the car, arranging his face into the deepest scowl he could manage, and tapped his knuckles against the rain-fogged window.

“Listen, kid,” he began.

“Why, Sheriff. I don’t think I’m quite young enough to be a _kid_ ,” Peter Hale said cheekily. “Though I have been mistaken for my sister’s son a few times.” 

John stared at him. 

“Is there a problem?” Peter asked. He grinned. “Were you expecting someone else?” 

“I thought this was Cora Hale’s car,” he said, clearing his throat. “You weren’t who I was expecting. But you were speeding either way,” he added sternly.

Peter jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “She sprained her ankle in gym class,” he said sweetly. His face darkened. “Or were you going to give my niece a hard time and don’t know what to do now that it’s me?”

John straightened up, insulted. “I was going to give _her_ a warning, since she’s a fairly new driver with a clean record. You, on the other hand, are a repeat offender and I won’t have any problem giving you a speeding ticket.” He stalked toward his cruiser; he deliberately ignored the sarcastic solute Peter tossed him when he glanced over his shoulder. 

Cora was pouting, leaning forward. “Sheriff Stilinski, is this going to go on my record?” she asked, flicking Peter’s ear. “It was him driving.”

“No, it won’t affect you,” he said with a little smile. He was so happy not to see his son in the driver’s seat that he was tempted to just slap Peter with a warning and send them on their way. “Maybe next time you should call Laura for a ride, though,” he added thoughtfully.

She scowled. “I did. She dropped this off instead.” 

Peter swatted at her hand when she prodded head. “That’s because no one wanted to leave their car at the high school where all the hooligans are gathered.” He smiled genially at John. “Cora is a menace. Can we go now?”

“Sure, after you sign on your place on the line.” He held the ticket out and watched Peter’s smile go sour.

“Of course, Sheriff,” he said through his teeth.

John whistled cheerfully, even as his uniform started to soak through. 

His son wasn’t being a degenerate and he’d given Peter Hale another speeding ticket. It wasn’t such a bad afternoon at all. 

 

 

**3**

 

John wasn’t doing anything he should feel guilty about. He knew it, and yet he couldn’t help looking around like a criminal waiting for the cops. He _was_ the cops, dammit, and he was doing his job. 

Stiles had insisted he was going to spend the rest of Friday at Scott’s house, which, normally, wouldn’t make John suspicious, except this was after Stiles had, once again, insisted he was going to get driving practice so that John would give him the jeep.

He was, he thought, understandably nervous. What did that _mean?_ Who was going to let Stiles drive their car? To _practice in?_

John was parked across the street of a 24-hour grocery store, eating a burger—okay, maybe that’s why he was feeling guilty—and watching the mostly empty parking lot. He couldn’t pull over anyone doing circles in the lot—that felt like picking on people—but he would certainly do it if he thought it was his child, who, while licensed, should not be driving his friend’s cars.

A somewhat familiar black SUV pulled into the far part of the parking lot. A dark haired girl got out of the driver’s seat, followed by a male-shaped figure getting out of the passenger seat and slinking to her side of the car.

As she was crossing to the passenger side, John caught a glimpse of her face—Allison Argent. Scott’s girlfriend. 

Stiles’s accomplice? 

John waited until Stiles was in the driver’s seat, carefully backing out of the spot, before he crept out of the shadows, pulling his cruiser toward the somewhat-lit parking lot of the grocery store. 

The SUV had run over a couple of the grocery store’s signs and not a few bushes before John was over there, flipping his lights on.

The SUV stopped right where it was, going straight to park and rocking slightly with the sudden stop. 

John suspected Stiles was scared out of his mind, and that Allison was probably yelling at him. There was an advertisement for an ice cream shop stuck out from under the bumper of the SUV. 

John got out of the cruiser and pulled the sign out. He was so sure of the fact that this time, he had caught Stiles, that he brought the little sign to the window and waved it triumphantly.

“You missed the pavement some,” he said sagely. “Son, you need to wait until I have time to drive with you, not your friends.”

“I’m sorry?” Isaac Lahey asked shakily. 

John’s mouth dropped open before he could stop it. He snapped it closed quickly. Gruffly, he said, “You don’t have your license yet, do you, son?”

Isaac shook his head wildly, curls obscuring his eyes. His breaths were slightly uneven. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “I just need some practice.”

“And Miss Argent, I don’t believe you’ve had your license for more than seven years yet?” John asked, peering past Isaac. 

Allison smiled sweetly. “No, sir. But my dad was busy tonight and I thought Isaac could use some practice, since there’s no one here.” She looked at the sign in his hands. “We can put those back.” 

“See that you do.” He looked back at Isaac. “Why don’t you get ahold of Stiles, and when we’ve all got time, the three of us can take a day to get some practice?” 

Isaac’s eyes rounded, but he nodded shyly, muttering his thanks.

“Allison, no more driving lessons for your friends,” John said sternly. “I’ll be watching.” He tapped the side of his nose.

Allison laughed. “Alright, alright. Come on, switch,” she said, elbowing Isaac lightly. “Sorry about that, Sheriff.”

“Mmhm. You kids be careful.”

“You got it.” She hopped out and pulled Isaac’s door open.

John went back to his car and watched until they’d pulled away. He supposed he could have asked Allison if she knew who Stiles was practicing with. She’d have probably told him. _Damn._ He shrugged and pulled up to the ice cream shop’s drive-thru. 

 

 

**4**

He was fairly certain Stiles was trying to be casual, but he was _failing._ John woke up to a hot, full pot of coffee and a breakfast sandwich—it was one of those “lean” or “diet” ones that tasted like lies and stale egg whites—and that put him on edge. It was Saturday, he had to work the nightshift, and that meant Stiles would have the whole day to convince him he was going to be good before running wild that night.

“What’s this for?” John asked, going for casual, too. He took a bite of the sandwich and grimaced. He tried to hide it by taking a drink of the coffee.

“You’ve been working a lot,” Stiles said sweetly. “Pulling over all of my friends.”

John choked. “That’s not true,” he protested. “I’ve only pulled over Allison. Jackson Whittemore isn’t your friend, is he? Isn’t he your rival or something?”

“Nemesis,” Stiles hissed. He shrugged. “That doesn’t matter, now, anyway.”

John’s brows furrowed. “Why not? Did he and Lydia break up again?” Hmmm. Maybe he should see what kind of car Lydia Martin drove. 

“Huh? What?” Stiles frowned at him. “Lydia? Oh. No, I don’t think so. I don’t know.” He shook his head. “Did you terrorize Allison and Isaac?”

John smiled. “I didn’t terrorize anyone. Allison seemed fine.”

“ _Isaac_.” 

“He doesn’t have a license! That is my job, pulling over unlicensed drivers.”

“Dad. He’s got his permit. He’s just trying to practice.” Stiles looked _seriously_ on the verge of lecturing his own father. 

“I told him to give you a call so we could all practice together,” John said serenely. “Don’t you want your old man giving lessons to your friends?” 

Stiles looked horrified. “Dad,” he said, but he stopped, like there were no words to describe the embarrassment John had just caused him.

Ah, sweet payback. “Well, I think I’ll go enjoy this and watch some TV,” John said cheerily, using the breakfast sandwich to salute Stiles on his way to the living room.

“I’m going to Scott’s!” Stiles called, banging out the backdoor.

John frowned over his shoulder. Looked down at the sandwich in his lap. 

 

He was out of the house in the cruiser an hour later. He’d picked up a few extra hours from a deputy whose wife had gone into labor. She’d thanked him profusely, rushing to the hospital as soon as he’d arrived. 

“You sure are doing traffic a lot,” Deputy Morris observed. “Itching to stick it to the high crime of Beacon County?” she asked, laughing when he glowered at her. 

“Just keeping an eye on the hot spots,” he said dryly. 

The spot he chose this time was nearer to Scott’s house. He figured if he couldn’t catch Stiles at obvious places, maybe Stiles really _was_ going to Scott’s house. Maybe they were taking Melissa’s van while she was sleeping and he really _was_ going to have to kick that kid’s butt.

Sure enough, twenty minutes into his vigil, Melissa’s gray van crept around the corner onto the cul-de-sac, driving slowly enough that John was instantly suspicious. 

He flipped the lights on and let the siren blip, watched the driver wave in the rearview and pull over right outside of the McCall house.

He was already shaking his head when he got out, hands on his belt. He was ready to lecture them—idiot boys, all they had to was _ask_ , he and Melissa were willing when they had a day off—as he walked to the van.

The window was rolled down already, and Vernon Boyd was sitting in the driver’s seat, looking politely confused.

“Sheriff,” he greeted. 

John flicked his gaze toward the backseat and spotted some plants and grocery bags balanced on the seat. “Mr. Boyd,” he said. He couldn’t help an awkward laugh. He scratched the back of his head. “Running errands for Mel while she’s working?” he guessed.

Vernon nodded. “Was I…speeding?” he asked cautiously.

John leaned a hip against the van and shook his head, laughing at himself. “No, I was being stupid.”

“Sir?”

“I thought Stiles and Scott were driving Melissa’s van,” he clarified. He shook his head. “I’m sorry about that. You…go on.” He shook his head again, amused and somewhat embarrassed.

“Alright…” Vernon offered a small, still-confused smile and put the car back into gear.

John backed away, shaking his head at himself. He lifted his hand to wave as Vernon pulled into the McCall driveway. He got back in his cruiser and sighed. Maybe he needed to stop acting so paranoid…Stiles so far hadn’t actually been caught doing anything _wrong_.

A text buzzed his phone. He left the cruiser in park and checked the text. 

_Hanging out with Danny and the guys from the lacrosse team to get some practice in won’t make it to lunch love you_

He narrowed his eyes. And maybe he was just watching the wrong house.

 

 

**5**

It wasn’t easy to find Danny Mahealani’s car. He drove a black Dodge Avenger, which wasn’t easy to spot in a town full of neutral colored cars. John drove by the parks and fields in town, eyes narrowed as he searched parking lots for an unwieldy Dodge with his child behind the wheel.

From what John knew of Danny, aside from that little stint when he was thirteen, he was a fairly responsible kid, so he couldn’t see him letting Stiles joy ride in his car. He could, however, see his devious little shit talking him into letting him use it to go get donuts or something ridiculous just for a chance to drive it.

He could already imagine the looks on Mr. and Mrs. Mahealani’s faces when he had to explain that Stiles had totaled their kid’s car. He could imagine _his own face_ as he wrote out the check to the insurance company to _pay for the car_. 

He rubbed the heel of his hand against his sternum and renewed his search efforts.

He was rewarded when he spotted the Avenger—license plate ending in V93—at a red light about to turn toward the bypass. 

He blipped his siren and lights, weary of the process now. He could only see one person in the car and, despite how many false alarms he’d had, he couldn’t help the tightening of his mouth, the instinctive irritation at being deliberately ignored by his kid. 

There was a possibility that Stiles had turned him into some sort of paranoid horror-movie star. 

The thing was, the paranoid people in the horror movies always turned out to be right in the end.

So, bracing himself for the worst—which would be Stiles in the front seat while poor Danny lay in the back, fainted at the idea of Stiles driving his car—and hoping for slightly better—Stiles had borrowed the car for legit reasons, like driving someone to the hospital?—John adjusted his utility belt and approached the car.

He damned the tinted windows and waited impatiently while it rolled down to reveal…

Danny, looking confused and wary, looked up at him. “Hi, Sheriff,” He said cautiously. 

John scowled. “Where’s Stiles?” he demanded. He felt like he was on the right track, and then someone would switch things up on him and he’d miss his kid. 

“Uh…” Danny laughed awkwardly. “I just dropped him and Lahey off at McCall’s house.” He held his hand up. “Did something happen?” 

“You didn’t let him drive your car, did you?” John asked suspiciously.

It was even more suspicious when Danny’s eyes went a little wide. “What? No! Why would I do that?” He laughed nervously. “I didn’t mean he’s a bad driver—I just—no one drives my car,” he said hastily. “That’s all I meant, sir.” 

“Has anyone from the lacrosse team let him drive their cars?” John pressed.

Danny relaxed. “No, sir. He was going on about proving to you that he was a good driver or something, but none of us were keen on letting him borrow one, you know? Especially if you didn’t want him driving…” he hedged. He still looked somewhat confused. “Are you going to give me a ticket?”

“Is there a reason I should?” John asked automatically. He cursed himself when Danny looked alarmed. “No, go on, you’re fine. Just, you know, don’t let anyone else drive your car. Insurance.” He nodded firmly like that made any sense, and Danny nodded back like he agreed it made sense, and they both kept nodding until they were in their respective vehicles and out of eye line. 

John received another text once he was in his cruiser.

 _Would you please stop harassing my friends?! It’s hard enough to keep them around when you’re me without my SHERIFF FATHER chasing them away and threatening them!_

His only response was that he hadn’t been threatening anyone. 

 

 

**+1**

John’s reign of terror on the teenagers of Beacon Hills ended at Danny. He felt bad enough that he’d pulled over some of the actual good kids—he’d pulled over _Vernon Boyd_ , who ran errands for everyone on his block, old, young, sick, and healthy alike, which made him feel like slime—and given them a scare, not that he thought there was anything wrong with a good scare to keep kids in line. 

He admitted defeat—and admitted that Stiles was probably just talking out of his ass when he talked about proving something to John—and went on one last traffic patrol Sunday evening. He wouldn’t admit to his fellow deputies that he’d been scared his son was going to kill someone, so he had to act like it was just a week of being restless. 

The day crept by warm and sluggish, as most summer Sundays tended to. There were college age kids back in town for the summer, hauling dirty laundry to conflicted parents and chattering about finally having something to eat besides noodles.

John watched for trouble, because there was always at least one flying through the back road he was sitting on. He had been planning on letting it go, but there were also kids on bikes and walking on the side of the road, so he thought he’d make sure everyone adhered to the 20mph limit posted on this particular road.

It headed into the preserve, so it wasn’t _too_ busy when people weren’t trying to get to the lake on the far side of the town. The trouble was it was a warm, sluggish Sunday and that’s where _everyone_ seemed to be heading. 

His position on the side of the road was fairly obvious, so by noon, not only had he not caught any speeders, but there was little to no traffic anyway. He was nearly nodding off, listening to the radio in case there were any emergencies, when a black Camaro whipped into sight, blowing past him like it was already _in_ a police chase, and flying off down the road.

The Camaro was a much admired and well known car, belonging to Derek Hale—Talia Hale’s oldest son, who had clearly come back from college just to flout the speed limits of his hometown right in front of the sheriff. 

“Ha!” John snorted, flipping his lights on and pressing the gas.

The Camaro wobbled, the speed fluctuating for a moment, as if Derek hadn’t been expecting to get caught and now that he had, he wasn’t sure what to do. 

Admittedly, John had never pulled Derek over for speeding—in fact, the only time he’d pulled the Camaro over at all was when Peter was driving and that had been on Derek’s seventeenth birthday, when Derek had bought himself the car with, apparently, according to Peter, a “very boring lifetime’s worth of savings”. 

The reason John had never seen him speeding was apparently because he was doing it on backroads where children biked. 

John sped up, flickering his police lights again, letting the siren wail out a warning. 

Finally, the Camaro slowed and trundled to a stop at the shoulder. 

John parked the cruiser and grabbed his clipboard, smug and ready to write out the ticket. He found himself almost as gleeful as when he got to write Peter a ticket, and figured it was a trained reaction—the last time he’d pulled over this same car, Peter _had_ been behind the wheel. 

“Alright, Mr. Hale, that was almost triple the speed limit. You need to be more…” John trailed off as the window rolled down.

“Hi, Dad,” Stiles said awkwardly. He was flushed with excitement, his eyes gleaming. He cleared his throat and pretended to look guilty.

Beyond him in the passenger seat was Derek Hale, his hands covering his face. 

“What…?”

Stiles smiled. “Derek’s been teaching me how to drive a stick.”

Derek let out a piteous wail of anguish, muffled by his hands.

Stiles’s face turned red. “Wow! That’s not what I meant! He’s not—the car! Is a stick shift! Which the jeep also is! Which is why I asked Derek to teach me?” Stiles babbled. 

“Is that so,” John said flatly. 

“Yes! It’s very so, it is so _so_ , so if you could maybe, like.” Stiles made shooing motions.

“You were going 55 in a _20_ , Stiles!” John snapped. “What’s wrong with you?” 

“I—have you ever _driven_ this car?” Stiles whispered reverently. He ran his hands over the steering wheel. “This car, like, _wants_ to go fast. You can’t resist!”

“Yes,” Derek said from the passenger seat, “you can! And you don’t try to see if it can _out run a police cruiser._ ” He looked mortified, raising his head. “I regret,” he said very quietly, “so much.” 

“You’re right about that,” John huffed. “How old are you, anyway?” he snapped, though at some point he probably knew.

“Nineteen, sir,” he muttered. 

“Nineteen!” 

“Dad. He’s just teaching me to drive!” Stiles squeaked. He was flushed with embarrassment now, shooting a nervous glance at Derek. “I told you I was going to prove to you that I was a good driver!”

“All this proves is that you speed! Not good driving!”

Stiles opened and closed his mouth. “Well, I,” he tried. “I was. There was no one back here! It’s deserted!”

“Except,” Derek pointed out in a somewhat angry voice, “for the Sheriff. Apparently.” 

“Right,” Stiles agreed. His voice had gone small. “Except for the sheriff.” He twisted toward Derek and held his hands out. “At least the ticket will go on my record,” he offered. 

“I get off at six,” John said. He wasn’t sure why he was so angry—he’d gotten to the bottom of things, and the bottom of things turned out to be that Stiles had a crush—maybe he was angry because Stiles wasn’t the only one casting sidelong glances and he had to witness it. “You,” he pointed at Stiles, “will not be driving. You,” he pointed at Derek, “will. You will drive him to my house at six. You will both be waiting outside. I will bring pizza, and we are going to have dinner together. All three of us.”

“Dad,” Stiles hissed. “Why? What is this!” 

Derek glanced between Stiles and John, and although his face was set like he was being put upon, his eyes had rounded hopefully, and John was going to do _so much grilling_ when he got home. “Alright,” he finally said. “Stiles, let me drive.”

“But! I have my license! I am legally allowed to drive!”

“Not my car you aren’t,” Derek said promptly, getting out. “Not after driving like that. That’s the last time I let Peter borrow my car while I’m at school,” he added.

“Peter was teaching you to drive, too?” John felt like he was going to burst a vein. 

Stiles scooted past him to the passenger side. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, can’t hear you, Dad!” 

“Stiles Stilinski, I’m going to ground you so long you won’t _need_ to drive the jeep because you will have your own _power scooter_ by the time you’re allowed out of the house!” 

“What? Can’t hear you!” Stiles called again, turning the radio up.

John waved Derek off when he looked like maybe he was going to try to eject Stiles from his car. “My house. Six.”

“Yes, sir,” he said quickly. 

“And don’t let your uncle drive your car, either!” he added, backing away so Derek could pull off.

He waved out the window.

Derek drove the precise speed limit on the backroad. 

John could hear Stiles protesting all the way from the cruiser, which was nice. 

He got a text and looked down at his phone in irritation.

_You still have to apologize to my friends for pulling them over._


End file.
